Borne on the Bayou

Borne on the Bayou

By: Michael Cole

In all, Marcus had to admit to himself that things could be worse. In fact, he’d seen worse, experienced worse and certainly lived through worse. Growing up in the murky, hazard filled bayous of Plaquemines Parrish in Louisiana’s most southern reaches into the Gulf of Mexico, Marcus had lived through hurricanes, flooding, battles with prehistoric swamp dwelling creatures and a host of hazards too numerous to mention. But Marcus was not at all put off by his upbringing. No, he appreciated all that he and his French-Creole small family of five had endured and triumphed over.

Marcus is a survivor. He learned from a young age how to survive off the land – no matter what that land – or swamp presented him with. His father, a staunch, rugged smallish man who’d never left the formidable, tendril like marshy landscapes of the bayous south of Buras Louisiana except to venture over to Port Fourchon to the west by water, or up into Jefferson Parrish to barter for supplies, and then very rarely. Marcus, from the age of 5 had been by his father’s side nearly every day of his 18 years. He had learned to fish, to hunt gators, to trap animals, to barter the pelts and hides for fuel, or tools, or metal. Yes, Marcus could attain anything he needed, if not provided by nature, then from the bounty natures giving’s could bring from those who dealt in gator hides, or beaver pelts and the like.

Marcus was always amazed at the contacts his father, Jedidiah, had across the vast watery wilderness only 60 miles or so south of the bustling party filled streets of New Orleans. If Marcus’s family needed fuel, they’d go see Sam in Empire. If they needed roofing metal, they’d hustle up to Port Sulfur int their stump-knocker to see Jackson, and so on. Marcus learned the meaning of a man’s word, and honest dealings from a very young age.

Now, on his eighteenth birthday, Marcus wanted to venture out. He’d always heard of the lively, colorful streets of New Orleans. He’d heard the stories of the throngs of party goers who, in their alcohol-induced haze world freely toss their dollar bills at anyone who could strum a tune and belt out a popular lyric. Marcus, against Jedidiah’s stern warnings, was launching his little skiff off the from the floating fishing camp he called home, telling his father he’d be back with whatever he could earn with his battered but serviceable six string – Marcus’s most prized possession.

His eyes were as big as saucers and his head felt as though it was in some mystical dreamland as Marcus made his way north on Canal Street, not quite in the official French Quarter, but close enough. Having found a small pilling to lash his skiff to, where he desperately hoped no one would steal it, Marcus half staggered, half ran up Canal towards what he had been told was the place to be for making a buck with his guitar, Bourbon Street.

As Marcus moved along in the undulating sea of tourists, street walkers, vendors and performers, Marcus noticed a tall, slender, well dressed women who didn’t quite seem to fit in this early evening crowd as they waited to cross Decatur Street. The woman, a tall, leggy redhead, dressed in a form fitting midnight-blue dress that fell to just above her slender ankles, where the straps of a pair of high heeled elegant gladiator, open toed, stiletto dress shoes seemed impossible to Marcus that anyone could walk in. But she did, with a graceful, flowing, almost athletic stride. Marcus was captivated.

As the hoard of people waiting to cross Decatur Street, Marcus forgot about everything else around him, as he watched, mesmerized by this beauty. The light turned and the hoard began their stampede across the street. One, obviously well lubricated, pedestrian knocked hard up against Marcus’s obsession, and Marcus noticed a small black, leather bound book fall from the long, nimble, red painted finger tips of her right hand – right in the middle of the intersection.

Raised to be a perfect gentleman, maybe unrefined, but a gentleman none the less, Marcus hurried the few steps to catch up to the lithe form that had captured his attention. Stretching out his strong free arm, Marcus used his guitar case to deflect the offending drunkard, while simultaneously wrapping his strong free arm around the black-clad beauty, keeping her upright.

Marcus scanned around, looking down and spotted the little black book, and I one smooth, fast motion, swooped down snatching up the book as he maintained watch on the bustling crowd, ensuring no one else would violate the amazing beauties’ space. Lifting the book up to the dazzling women, their eyes met, and Marcus was speechless and spellbound at the most incredible emerald green eyes he’d ever seen.

He handed over the book, unable to speak and gave a meek smile. She was speaking, but he couldn’t make out the words he was so enamored. Realizing they were still in the intersection, the tall beauty wrapped her fingers around Marcus’s and led them to the sidewalk, thanking him for his chivalry, and gave him a peck on the cheek. What Marcus could not have known was his entire world had just changed.

Regaining his composure as the women slipped away, being swallowed by the crown, Marcus continued on to his original destination, Bourbon Street. Marcus picked a small service door stoop just down from the Hollywood Hustler, sat down, unsheathed his guitar, set out his well-worn Carolina Skiff ball cap – inverted just in front of him and began to strum his favorite CCR song, Proud Mary. A small balcony was just above and to Marcus’s left – he assumed belonged the Hustler, but he was wrong.

The tattered ball cap had a few bucks in it as Marcus ran through his repertoire, but it wasn’t long before Marcus would receive his first lesson of Bourbon Street performers. It was just eight in the evening. The crowds were small, but building, and a large bib-overall wearing Neanderthal looking loomed over Marcus.

“You’re in my spot,” the man spit showing a face full of dip stained teeth. The man had a baby gator in his hands, its mouth tapped shut an only about 10 inches long, Marcus focused on the baby reptile from years past and wondered why anyone would walk about a city carrying a baby gator.

The burly hulk of a man reached down, grabbed Marcus by the collar and hoisted him to his feet and again said, “You’re in my spot.”

Not wanting to get into a fight, Marcus apologized, gathered his ball cap, guitar case and began to move on. What Marcus didn’t know was that just over his head, on a balcony that very few, a very special few, had access to stood the red-haired raven Marcus had met only a hours before, and of whom Marcus did not even know the name.

The fiery read head, Angelina DeBaillion, daughter of one of the most secretive and successful New Orleans real-estate tycoons Armond DeBaillion, had known this exchange would come and had pre-positioned assistance for Marcus. But she knew that Marcus had to learn the lesson, so she hadn’t singled her lead bodyguard Gerard to engage just yet. As the overall wearing, baby gator wielding dolt looked as though he wasn’t going to let the lesson end as Marcus apologized, Angelina, Angie to those who knew her, nodded her head slightly and Gerard stepped in.

Baby-gator, that’s how Gerard thought of this goon, knew who Gerard was and backed in the small alcove where Marcus had just vacated as Gerard stepped menacingly towards him. Gerard reached out with his beefy mitt, gently grabbed Marcus just under his elbow and told Marcus he didn’t have to leave. That Baby-gator would be more than willing to give up this space. Bab-gator agreed and with no small sense of urgency, hurried down Bourbon Street.

“Miss Angie would like a word with you,” Gerard said in a most pleasant and comforting tone, as he glanced up to the balcony, Marcus’s eyes following the look of the small mountain standing next to him.

Gerard escorted Marcus to a small wood and glass paneled door that looked like it might have been handcrafted in the late 1800’s, along the side of the building that housed Hollywood Hustler and up a narrow, dimly let, gut well appointed staircase up to the second floor.

The two entered a lavishly decorated French colonial sitting room, with colorful yet tastefully decorated chairs, ornate side tables and hutches, and two sets of old-world style doors that Marcus assumed led out to the balcony. He was right, and Gerard ushered him to the doors, indicating he should step out.

Still clutching his guitar, Marcus opened one of the doors, and stepped out on to the small balcony, with its 100-year old, hand crafted iron work railing and stupendous view over Bourbon Street, and looked at the only other figure out there, Angie.

Angie held a slender flute of champagne, asked Gerard, who was standing in the doorway Marcus had just passed through, to please bring her guest a glass. Gerard stepped off, and Angie held out her hand and introduced herself to Marcus. Marcus took her hand and said in a firm and confident voice, “I’m Marcus, it’s my pleasure to meet to mete you Angie.”

Marcus went on, “Thank you for intervening,” as he nodded down towards the sidewalk below. “But I could have just moved on. I wasn’t afraid of him, just didn’t want to cause a scene and prove my father right.”

“Your father,” Angie asked as she retrieved a small clutch purse from the hand crafted table next to her.

“My father said that if I came to the city, there would only be trouble,” responded Marcus. I only came to earn some money and to see if the stories were true.”

“And are the stories true,” Angie asked?

“Mostly,” Marcus with small nod.

“Well, I would like to hear those stories someday,” Angie offered. “But for now, know that the space below is yours to use whenever you like, and this is for you.”

Angie held out a small back envelope, the type people used to get from the bank when they’d go in to cash their paycheck.

“This is for helping me back on Canal Street, and for being such a gentleman, and for your troubles below,” Angie motioned for Marcus to take the envelope.

“I couldn’t take it,” Marcus said has he held up a hand. “I was only doing what was right.”

“Which is why I insist you take this,” Angie responded. “There are not too many people in this world that would do what you did, and that should not go unappreciated.”

“Besides, you don’t’ realize how important that little book you saved is to me and my family,” Angie offered.

Marcus accepted the envelop, again thanked Angie for the assist, and let her know, he’d be back to play every Friday, if that was OK with her.

Angie agreed, and said she was glad, she like Marcus’s take on the old CCR songs. She also told Marcus she’d be on the balcony to listen and enjoy whenever Marcus was playing.

Marcus, feeling like his first venture out was concluded, headed for his skiff. It wasn’t until he shoved off and pointed his skiff south, down the mighty Mississippi, that he opened the envelope, and his shock nearly caused him turtle the small skiff. Marcus had never before seen, nor even dreamed of $20,000. This was only the beginning of how Marcus’s life had changed.